


In Vino Veritas

by MistressKat



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-02
Updated: 2010-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 21:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I have duties. Important, Crown Princely duties."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [old_blueeyes](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=old_blueeyes).



> Prompt: Wine.

“I am the Crown Prince of Camelot,” Arthur informs Merlin, leaning heavily on his shoulder as they make their way through the castle.

Under their feet the floor is tilting in a most disagreeable fashion and Arthur groans, closing his eyes against the rising tide of nausea. He’s utterly certain hallways are _not _supposed to move on their own.

“Remarkable,” Merlin comments, his voice drier than last year’s hay. “You remember who you are. Well done.”

Arthur is pretty sure his manservant is mocking him again, but he’s also too drunk to find it anything but oddly adorable.

“The point is, Merlin,” Arthur says as they round another tricky corner. “That as _the Crown Prince of Camelot_ I have duties. Important, Crown Princely duties.”

“Yes, your Highness,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes audibly.

Before Arthur can decide if he should bust out his _Insubordination Will Get You Into More Trouble Than I Can Rescue You From_ speech – for the _third _time this week – the corridor rises up to meet him in an alarming and entirely uncalled for sneak attack. He is, however, saved from falling onto his Crown Princely – and magnificent, even if he does say so himself – ass by Merlin, whose arm catches him around the middle and hauls him upright.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, forgetting completely that he is the Crown Prince of Camelot and that Merlin is his manservant and therefore things like holding Arthur up are in his job description and no thanks are needed or customarily given.

“You are a good friend.” Arthur beams at Merlin and clumsily pats his skinny chest.

Merlin’s face goes slack with surprise, which makes him look even more like a village idiot than normal. Magnanimously, Arthur chooses not to comment.

“Come on,” he says instead, tugging Merlin in a direction he _thinks _is the right one.

Merlin shakes his head as if to clear it, which is weird because unlike Arthur he hasn’t downed several cups of vintage wine this evening. Well, at least Arthur hopes he hasn’t.

Eventually they start off again, staggering along the twisting hallways while Arthur doggedly returns to the previous topic.

“These Crown Princely duties,” he says and then lowers his voice like he’s telling a secret – and maybe he is. “I don’t actually _mind_ most of them. Like... remember that village, Merlin? With the draught? And me and the boys went to help with the digging of the new well?”

Merlin grunts in acknowledgement, steering them toward the left.

“You helped too,” Arthur adds graciously, because Merlin _had_, his hands unexpectedly steady on the shovel, shirt clinging to his sweaty back as he’d dug with the rest of them.

Arthur smiles. “That was good. I _liked _that.”

“Yes,” Merlin agrees, his voice curiously soft with what sounds an awful lot like approval.

Arthur feels something warm and fragile curl in his chest, his cheeks flushing with what he firmly tells himself is the wine.

He clears his throat, ploughing on: “But this: entertaining an air-headed daughter of some foreign dignitary? I would’ve rather spent the evening fighting some sort of a scaly monster. With, like, enormous claws. ”

Merlin doesn’t look convinced. “Lady Thiannon is very beautiful,” he points out, so carefully neutral that Arthur knows he’s anything but.

“Well yes. But Merlin,” Arthur says and now he’s definitely whining but can’t quite help himself. “She was so _boring_.”

Merlin barks with surprised laughter. They’ve reached Arthur’s chambers and Merlin unceremoniously props him against the wall while he fiddles with the lock.

“So you see,” Arthur explains, although he doesn’t know why he feels he _should_, to Merlin of all people. “The only thing getting me through tonight was the extremely large goblet of wine. And the one after that. And the one—”

“I think I get the picture,” Merlin says, but he sounds more indulgent than annoyed so Arthur counts it as a win.

The door finally opens with a mournful creak and Merlin pulls Arthur into the room, propelling him toward the bed.

Arthur trips on something Merlin has left lying around, but manages to turn his fall into a semi-graceful roll. “Warrior’s reflexes,” he tells Merlin from where he’s lying face smushed against the covers.

Merlin snorts. He tugs Arthur’s boots off one by one, and pushes and shoves at his legs until he’s mostly right way on the bed.

Arthur wraps his arms around a pillow. Sleep is slowly settling on him, heavy and inevitable, but he resists, watching Merlin bustle about the room.

“Hey,” Arthur says, wine and exhaustion making his voice slur.

Merlin turns around. “Yes?”

“Light the fire, will you? It’s cold.”

It’s not cold. It’s just that Arthur doesn’t want Merlin to leave yet. Or maybe not at all.

It’s not something he can say though. No matter how drunk he is.


End file.
